Wednesday, May 22, 2013

Two
nights ago I came home from work and crawled into my new bed with my new deep
purple sheets, completely tired out. I had just finished two major
projects at work and recently completed my third year studying for a Master’s
in Public Administration (think MBA with a P instead of a B). I
have one more year of studying and did I mention I was tired?

I
took my power nap, pulled myself out of bed and went to the window. There was a
storm coming. When the thunder rolled and the rain began, I felt refreshed and
energized (I am a big fan of thunderstorms). I thought about the work I
do now, which is not a bad gig if you can get it – writing, photography,
design, social media, website. Mostly I enjoy it, but I often wish
for a bigger stage, a bigger impact, a bigger paycheck.

As
I stood at the window watching the rain and thinking about work, I heard a
little voice in my head, like from my seven-year-old self, that said,
"But I just want to make art and write novels." I have
heard this voice saying these words before. So I whispered it out loud
just to see what it would be like, and it sounded….weak. Wimpy.
Uncommitted. False. Wishful. I mean, there was no force
behind it, no energy or conviction, just a whiny little kid’s longing for play
and fun and frivolity. And so I said it louder, in a stronger voice
(do you think I’m crazy?) while looking at the rain:

“I
just want to make art and write novels.” Which felt better, stronger, but
still sort of...childish. And so again, in a louder voice: “I want to
make art and write novels!!”

How I left Dragonfly all those months ago

This
time it had some force in it, some conviction, a lot of energy. And the next
thought, which came from the same (now excited) seven year old, was this: “So
what are you waiting for? Let’s do it!” And so I pulled out
the canvas holding my dragonfly, the thing I’ve wanted to work on for months
but set aside on a dark shelf because I've been too busy studying to even think
about, except with sadness and a kind of dread, the fear that it would remain
undone or worse, that it would be done badly.

I
pulled my supplies out – the glue, the brush, the scissors, the
paper, fabric, and oh! The colors! I started to work and then
watched myself as I got temporarily stuck wanting to get it right, to be
perfect, to make no mistakes. I felt frustrated that it – that I - was
all too linear. I’d been coloring in the lines for months, hard, making
straight lines and edges. Newsletters and postcards and flyers and books
and 10 page papers and presentations and logical writing require this, they
require you to be exact with straight lines and to get it right.

What
I needed now in this moment was to set aside the scissors and the lines, to
tear the paper in ragged edges, and lay it down on the canvas with some
thoughtfulness but without a lot of planning, the way I worked on my other
projects, the way I live my life, trusting that all shall be well and it will all
come together. Unlike the design work I do for a living, straight edges
are not necessary when making collage and sometimes even
counterproductive. So I set the scissors aside and just played. I picked
them up when I needed to.

The
truth I live with is this: My mother was a woman who taught me many
useful things, like these: be honest, show up for work on time, read a lot,
read out loud, be gentle, stay open to life even when you want to shut down,
and that I as a woman have better things to do with my time than just cook and
clean. But the one thing she taught me that I have to unlearn is that
“you can’t make a living as an artist.” I love my mother with all my
heart, and I know she was protecting me from what she saw as the harsh
realities of life, and I know she was only passing on to me what she was taught,
and that she postponed the fullness of her own artistic life until she retired,
but this is a wound that went deep into my psyche and into my soul, because the
truth is, in a parallel universe, I coulda/shoulda/woulda gone to art school as
a young person. I could have trained to be an artist. And the truth
is I should be working toward an MFA right now, either studio art or creative
writing, but I took another route. I took the route that will “pay the
bills.” Oh, don’t get me wrong, I have enjoyed my classes and I don’t regret my
choice at all. I knew when I made the choice to go to grad school that I
would wish I had taken the other route no matter which one I chose. My
top two choices were MPA or MFA (could they BE more different?) Either
way, I would have wondered about the road not taken. I would not,
however, grieve the loss of one as I now grieve the loss of the other.

Happiness and progress

However,
another truth is this: I made the right choice. I chose the road
that lets me feed my kids, pay my bills, AND make art. I could not have taken
two years off from work and taken out oodles of loans to go into a studio and
paint and whatever else you do when get an MFA. Well, OK. I could
have. But I didn't. Maybe some day I will know what that feels like,
maybe after I publish my novels and memoir and get filthy rich, I will know. A
girl can dream.

In
the meantime, the point is this: while I may not be making a living as an
artist, I have to make a life as one, because it makes me happy to make art, it
makes me happy to write, it smoothes out the rough edges of worry in my mind,
it makes my surroundings and physical reality more tolerable when I create
beauty, when I play, when I let go of the outcome and just be open to
possibility. It makes me happy when I color outside the lines.

And
here is more truth: I have to make a LIFE as an artist because I AM an
artist, and so there really is no other choice.

What truth are you living with?

P.S.
In case you're wondering, the child is the Boy Jesus, and the clown on the painted
red canvas is Trickster, a larger than usual SoulCollage® Council card. A
universal archetype, Trickster has played a larger than usual role in my life
and finally demanded acknowledgement of his existence. And all of it rests on a
little card table in my bedroom, across from my big, unsullied new bed with dark purple sheets.